


this clock never seemed so alive

by vlieger



Series: old footie fic rewrites [5]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they actually meet is the night before the first time they officially meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this clock never seemed so alive

**May 2004**

The first time they actually meet is the night before the first time they officially meet. In the morning they have training, but tonight Basti discovers he's been allocated a room with the other baby of the squad, someone called Podolski he's been hearing a lot of things about.

Basti's plane had gotten in late, and he'd known a few of the faces flying in with him but kept to himself, mainly, because he still hasn't played any minutes for the first team and everyone else coming in from Bayern has, a terrifying accumulated number between them.

He's tired and nervous and uncertain. He's last to check in, an elevator to himself, and when he glances into the mirrored panelling he grimaces. His skin looks dry and blotchy, his clothes are all askew, and his hair is a mess. He hopes Podolski isn't a shit.

Podolski, actually, wrenches the door open before Basti manages to knock, and he almost trips over the sway of forward-momentum. He grabs the doorframe and blinks.

"Shit, sorry," says Podolski, smiling sheepishly. "I heard you in the corridor. Hi."

"Hi," says Basti. "Um."

"Lukas," says Podolski-- Lukas-- holding out a hand. "Or, um, you can call me Poldi?"

"Poldi," says Basti, nodding. It suits him, plus, "Most people call me Basti."

"Nice to meet you," says Poldi, grinning wide. He has a really nice smile. They shake hands.

"You too," says Basti. He drops his bag with a relieved sigh when he steps further inside.

"Tired, huh?" says Poldi. "Me too. Guess we should sleep, yeah?"

Basti nods, too busy yawning to answer.

Poldi just laughs.

It's easier than he thought, falling asleep to the soft sounds of someone completely unfamiliar in the room, the rustle of sheets and the slow, even drag of Poldi's breathing.

Maybe it's because Poldi smiled at him so easily, or maybe it's because Poldi hasn't played his first international cap yet either, or maybe it's both those things.

Basti doesn't know, but it's pretty nice, whatever the reason.

 

**June 2004**

They end up getting their first international caps at the same time.

Thinking about it, Basti realises he likes the significance of this a lot.

Poldi is so easy to get along with, so quick to smile, all banter and easy affection, generous with his time and his friendship. He touches Basti a lot, even after a month, heavy arms thrown over his shoulders or friendly cuffs to the back of his head. When he wants Basti's attention for himself he touches his waist or the inside of his wrist. Basti touches him probably just as much, and he can't help it at all, it's like-- like magnetism, or something.

Poldi doesn't have to ask for his attention. He has it more often than not anyway.

Basti doesn't tell him this, because he likes the way Poldi smiles when he does: when his fingertips brush the hem of Basti's shirt seekingly, questioningly, and Basti looks over to meet his waiting gaze, his bright eyes and wide mouth.

Basti doesn't tell him a lot of things, even after a month.

Things like, _I like you a lot, probably too much_ , and also, _I want to touch you all the time, even more than I already do, which I think is more than a little bit crazy,_ and also, _I've never actually had a crush on a teammate before_ , and also, _I've never even had a crush on a friend before, and I think that part is harder, I think teammates would be okay if we weren't friends,_ and also, _would you want to spend so much time with me if you knew how much I really stared at you?_ and also, _you think we only hang out when we hang out but actually I watch you when you're with the other guys and wish you were with me instead._

And always lastly, because he likes to reassure himself with it as much as he'd use it to reassure Poldi if any of this ever turned into actual words, which it won't, scheiße, Basti would die of embarrassment, _it doesn't matter though, because we're friends and that means I know you smile like that at everyone, that you're too nice for your own good, that everything is easy for you because you smile like that and laugh all the time and you have nice eyes and smooth skin, and you hardly ever lose your temper and it's cute when you act like a shit, so I'm not going to do anything because I like you too much now to give up being your friend and I know these are things you can't help, that they don't mean anything special in my company, that this is just me, wanting from you the one thing that's not there for me to have._

For all this, it's still easier than it has any right to be, and that comforts Basti a little, the way it feels like fate, like him and Poldi are meant to be in this together no matter how stupid and distracting and potentially humiliating the hot jumble of Basti's thoughts feel most of the time. It's still easy, and good, and maybe just exactly the way things are supposed to be.

After all, Basti's pretty sure he can handle crushing on Poldi if he still gets Poldi's friendship out of it.

Just like he can handle any sharp punch of cleats to the gut as long as he's out on the field.

The day of the friendly against Hungary, he stays out of his own head mainly by watching Poldi the entire time. Poldi seems as relaxed as he always is, which is to say, energetic and smiling so much Basti wonders his face doesn't hurt, hip-checking and shoulder-bumping all the guys, Basti included, but it's nothing out of the ordinary, nothing like the churned-up fizzle of nerves chewing Basti from inside his stomach. He's okay until the locker room before the match, where he knows he can't watch Poldi as closely as he'd like to because then people will _see_. It's just a stupid friendly, he tells himself, but it doesn't really help, because this year is Euro, next year is Confed, and the year after is _it_ , is the World Cup.

All of it starts here, for him, in Kaiserslautern against Hungary.

If he's not careful, if he's not good enough, it might end here, too.

He blinks when someone bumps his shoulder, and looks up to see that Poldi's slid onto the bench beside him. He's close enough that their bare thighs are pressed together, and Basti watches as Poldi curls a hand over the top of his, stilling his anxious movements.

"Hey," he says quietly.

Basti swallows. "Hey," he whispers back.

" _Baszd meg a picsádat_ means 'fuck your cunt' in Hungarian," says Poldi.

Basti snorts out a startled, utterly undignified laugh.

Poldi grins. "You know, in case you need to say something out there."

"Thanks," says Basti, still giggling.

"You're gonna be great, you know," says Poldi.

Basti breathes out and smiles at him, feels his eyes creasing up with it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Poldi nods firmly.

"You too," says Basti.

Poldi smiles back. "This is ours, you know?" he says. "The start."

Basti shakes his shoulders loose, and says, "Fuck yeah."

 

**June-July 2004**

Euro isn't ideal, but Basti knows he makes an impression, and he's young enough that it's more important to him than winning the competition, right now.

Poldi gets some minutes too, and Basti knows he isn't as pleased with his own performance, but enough that he still smiles as they part ways and says, "Just the start."

"Fuck yeah," says Basti again, bumping his fist and then pulling him into a hug.

Poldi laughs against his shoulder, squeezing him back, and says, "Talk soon, okay?"

 

**September 2004**

Basti's back in Munich when autumn hits. The first time he sets up the PlayStation to kill some nervous energy before bed, unpacking it from where it's still tucked away in his suitcase, he's met with the scores from his and Poldi's last battle, Poldi's at the top of the table.

That score had come the last time they'd played too late into the night in their hotel room, and they'd accidentally shouted loud enough, Poldi in triumph and Basti in frustration, that they must've woken half the hotel, because Jens had come to yell at them from the corridor, threatening to break the door down and beat them up if they didn't shut the hell up, _verfickte kinder._

He grins to himself, sets up a one-player game, and can't get ahead of Poldi's stupid score.

He maybe misses Poldi a lot.

He texts him, _i hate you,_ and Poldi sends back _???_ almost immediately.

 _playstation_ , answers Basti, self-explanatory.

Poldi replies with, _dont hate the playa, hate the game_ , in English.

 _loser_ , says Basti, laughing out loud.

 _i think the playstation says otherwise_ , Poldi replies.

Basti laughs again and throws the control aside, heading to bed. _rematch soon_ , he types out as he crawls under the covers. _im training hard, ill kick your ass._

 _sure you will_ , Poldi replies indulgently. _night, basti._

 _night_ , says Basti. He falls asleep smiling.

 

**February 2005**

At this stage, Basti would hesitantly say Poldi was something close to his best friend. Maybe not out loud, but it's enough, the easy way they slip into each other's company, the routines in their hotel room. Poldi likes to shower first, and Basti sets up the PlayStation while he does. When he takes his own shower just before bed, it's to the sounds of Poldi changing and rustling under the covers, and he's always not-quite asleep when Basti emerges, mumbling, "Night," as Basti crawls into his own bed. They're both sleepy and slow to rise in the mornings. Basti's usually out of bed first, and he likes it, the way Poldi lounges with the covers twisted around him, lazy and reluctant to move, baring hints of smooth, soft-looking skin, his warm, sleep-tinged smile and creased-shut eyes. He dresses clumsily while Basti brushes his teeth, and knocks their ankles together companionably under the table during breakfast, chatting with his mouth full.

It's probably why he notices, after a couple of days, that something about Poldi is just a little off. It's nothing more serious than a slight dimming in the force and frequency of his smiles, but for someone who pays as much attention to Poldi as Basti does, it's still pretty obvious. 

Plus his smiles are just so much of how Poldi communicates, moreso sometimes than words. It's one of the things Basti likes most about him-- or well, it would be, if he didn't like everything else so much as well.

They get to their room after training with a couple of hours still til dinner, cheeks pink from cold and exertion, fine flurries of cotton snow clinging to their collars and cuffs. Basti hesitates a second or two before he jumps onto Poldi's back, clinging monkey-like with his arms and legs. Poldi lets out a winded huff and stumbles a little, says, "Basti, what the hell."

"What's wrong?" says Basti, nudging his cold nose against Poldi's cheek.

Poldi furrows his entire face up hilariously. "Nothing's wrong, you giant oaf," he says.

"You're lying," says Basti. "Come on, what's up?"

Poldi rolls his eyes and lets himself tip backwards onto his bed, crushing Basti beneath his weight. Basti groans and tries to shove him off; Poldi elbows him in the gut before he moves.

" _Ow_ ," coughs Basti, curling onto his side. "You better tell me what's wrong now, asshole."

Poldi sighs and turns onto his side too, facing Basti, their bent knees touching and their spines curved outwards in mirror reflections of the other, like open parentheses. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says. "I've just been thinking."

"Dangerous," says Basti. "Shouldn't think so much. Like me." He grins.

Poldi rolls his eyes again. "It's just," he says, "We've got this year, right, and then it's _the_ year, and I haven't done that much yet. I have to be great this year, or when it comes time for selection they won't even remember who I am. It's-- it's just the pressure, I guess."

Basti chews on his lip for a moment, not sure what to say, how to make him feel better, even though he gets that, he gets it entirely. Maybe that's the point though, so in the end he says, "Remember how we played our first international games together?"

Poldi nods, blinking at him. 

"Right," says Basti. "And do you think I'm gonna get selected for the World Cup?"

"Of course," says Poldi immediately. "I saw the papers after Euro, they'd be crazy not to pick you."

"So they're gonna pick you too," says Basti. "Together, right? Plus, you know, you're a great player. You're gonna be brilliant. You already are, man. Stop worrying so much, okay?"

Poldi huffs a laugh, but he smiles, slow and soft, and says, "Yeah, okay," and, rolling onto his back to squint at the ceiling, "Together." He knocks his wrist against Basti's.

 

**June 2005**

These are the two things that Basti remembers about this month, after: heat and exhilaration.

They both linger, clinging to his skin like sweet, sticky things, like the leftover scents of sweat and grass and sugar he remembers from his childhood summers, breathing in deep before he falls asleep at night and playing out the sense-memories in his dreams.

Basti thinks he'll be dreaming about this all for a long time.

He scores his first two international goals in a friendly against Russia. 

Poldi high-fives him afterwards, catches his wrist before Basti can draw it away and jerks him into a hug as well, grinning against his cheek and whooping piercingly into his ear.

When he wakes the next morning, his cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

After that it's a trade-off of Confed Cup goals: Poldi scores against Australia in their first group match, Basti against Tunisia in the second, Poldi again in the semifinal loss to Brazil. It sucks, losing that match, but there's still the playoff for third, and it's fitting, the way everything about their friendship has been so far, like fate or some damn good reassurance at the very least, that the whole thing accumulates in a goal for each of them, four minutes apart.

"Fuck yeah!" shouts Basti, jumping into Poldi's arms after his goal, ahead again just a minute after Mexico scored the equaliser. "Made sure your goal still counts, baby!"

Poldi's grin is blinding and completely beautiful. "Thanks, you crazy fucker," he shouts back.

Basti knocks their foreheads together and tries very hard not to kiss Poldi on the mouth.

Third place isn't bad at all, in the end, and even better is their performance, his and Poldi's, this heady mix of pride and relief and hopeful anticipation that's satisfying as fuck.

It's better than he could've hoped for, basically, and it's all just-- it's really awesome.

Afterwards he collapses onto his bed, exhausted and happy, closing his eyes and grinning probably really stupidly up at the ceiling, letting it all settle over him in the quiet of their room.

He feels the bed shift beside him and cracks his eyes open to see Poldi stretching out.

"Hey," he says, knocking their ankles together. "Fuck."

"Yeah," agrees Basti. "Shit, we did good, man."

Poldi laughs. Basti watches him, the way the skin around his eyes folds like soft paper, the way his lips stretch wide, the way his cheeks are still blotted with spots of pink.

He thinks about hugging Poldi on the pitch, and how badly he wanted to kiss him then.

How badly he wants to kiss him now.

"Yeah," says Poldi. He curls a hand around Basti's wrist. "We did good."

Basti nods, swallows, looks down at Poldi's hand on him. 

"I was thinking," says Poldi, "Before the tournament, you know, about the best ways it could've gone. For the team, obviously, but also just. You and me, you know? Like, both of us scoring every game would've been ideal, but that's also not realistic. Pretty much next step down from impossible. But I think this way was. It was pretty fucking incredible, like, it's still better than anyone thought for us, better than even we thought, but it also actually _happened_."

Basti nods dumbly. Partly because yeah, Poldi is right, and it still hasn't really sunk in, that this is his life, that he's scored for the national team, that he scored four minutes after Poldi in the Confederations Cup third-place playoff, and partly because while he's been talking Poldi's fingers have been stealing downwards from Basti's wrist, tickling the hollow of his palm, threading between his own, and. They're _holding hands_. Poldi is holding his hand. 

"Um," says Basti eloquently.

Poldi squeezes their twined fingers, and whispers, "I kind of want to kiss you now. Um. Can I?"

" _Yes_ ," says Basti. "Shit, Poldi, please."

Poldi smiles, soft and secret, and lifts his other hand to cup Basti's jaw, leans in til their noses are bumping and then slots their mouths together, warm and a little bit clumsy.

It's slow and awkward but also completely amazing. Poldi shifts up onto his knees and shuffles closer, presses in harder, and Basti opens his mouth mostly without meaning to, but then Poldi licks inside, fingers pressing into the soft flesh beneath Basti's cheekbone. There's a little sting of teeth, a lot of tongue, and Poldi's weight nestled into the soft curves of Basti's thighs, the sharper crevices of his knees and elbows. They kiss and kiss, hot and messy and oh so good, honeyed down just enough by the heavy weight of their exhaustion and crashing adrenaline to keep it from getting too frantic. They kiss until Basti's lips are bruised and buzzing and Poldi's not really holding himself up anymore, pushing Basti onto his back and settling over him like a breathing, beating blanket, smiling damply against his neck.

Basti holds him close, awed, and says, "Sleep here tonight, yeah?"

"Yeah," whispers Poldi.

He shuffles them around so they're under the covers, and curls up tight against Basti's side.

Basti is half-hard, and Poldi is too, he can feel it against his thigh, but he thinks they can wait until morning to get off, okay for now with kiss-swollen lips and hands under each others' shirts.

It's probably stupid, all of this; they're so young and uncertain still, Basti had no idea until tonight that Poldi even _wanted_ anything like this with him, and they live in different cities, but Basti can't bring himself to care. It feels too much like the rest of this has been between them, like it's just another thing that's meant to happen to them on this crazy ride they're both on, easy and right.

 

**December 2005**

Basti misses Poldi a lot after they part ways, which is nothing unusual, but there are more things to miss now he knows what it's like to feel the slick slide of Poldi's kisses, the solid sleep-hot sprawl of his limbs in Basti's space, the pulse of his dick in Basti's hand.

It's still easy though, always easy. They cross paths a couple of times courtesy of the Bundesliga, and there are stolen kisses in empty locker rooms, messy handjobs tucked away in the semi-privacy of the showers. Poldi stays at Basti's apartment instead of the team hotel, and sucks him off so good Basti's shaking with it even as he returns the favour. He doesn't think Poldi's ever done that before; it's sloppy as shit, spit everywhere, and he chokes when he tries to take Basti's dick too far into his throat, but it's still basically the best thing ever, the stretched-out shine of his lips wrapped tight under the head of Basti's dick, the soft flutter of his throat when Basti accidentally pushes too hard with his hips. Basti scrubs his fingers restlessly through Poldi's hair, presses them into the concave of his cheeks when he sucks. Poldi's fingers are rough and perfect around the base of his dick, and Basti tries hard to be good, to keep his hips still and let Poldi take only what he can, but it only half works. He can't help it; Poldi is so into it, making choked-off pleased noises every now and then around his mouthful of dick, and the sight of Poldi on his knees for Basti is-- is _crazy_ , Basti doesn't even know. When he comes Poldi chokes and moans all at once, and he swallows Basti's come with a hand pressed to his own dick. Basti groans and swears and shakes, dropping to his knees and reaching for Poldi's pants.

The salty bloom of Poldi's precome on his tongue is a relief and a reward, when he finally gets a taste, and he touches Basti's shoulders, the back of his neck, his hair, while Basti grips his hips tight and sucks Poldi's blood-hot, impossibly swollen dick into his mouth. The noises Poldi makes when he comes down Basti's throat are almost enough to get him hard again.

Afterwards he kisses Poldi's bruised mouth, trails his fingers through the mess on his face, the leftover spit and tears, and tells him, "So good, Poldi, God, you're so good."

Poldi gasps out, "You too," still breathing hard, and drops his hand to touch Basti's dick.

Basti twitches, groaning.

"I want to do it again," says Poldi. "I want-- "

"Yes," says Basti, "Yes, anything."

Poldi sucks him off twice more before he goes. His voice when they say goodbye is raw and hoarse, and Basti kisses him stupid at the door, bites the swell of his bottom lip and presses his hard-again dick against Poldi's thigh. Poldi's smile would be a smirk if it weren't also so soft, and he says, "Should keep you going til next time, huh?" tracing the shape of Basti's dick.

Basti groans and says, "Get the fuck out of here."

Poldi laughs and goes, one last quick kiss to the corner of Basti's mouth.

They text a lot and occasionally talk on the phone, and it's only sometimes about sex, which is nice, the easy friendship that hasn't changed because they know now what it's like to make each other come. In December Basti lies back on his bed with the phone pressed to his ear and says, "Fuck, Poldi, next year. _Next year_. Fucking-- how did it get here so fast?"

Poldi laughs, warm in his ear, and says, "I know."

"Shit," says Basti.

"I know," says Poldi again.

"You and me, right?" says Basti, feeling his cheeks heat up.

"We're going to kill it," agrees Poldi. 

"Yeah." Basti breathes out. And then, in a fit of possibly ill-advised bravery, fiddling with the comforter on his bed even though Poldi can't see, "Hey, this-- this thing we've been doing, this-- "

"Having sex?" says Poldi dryly, and then ruins it by giggling.

Basti rolls his eyes. "Yeah, having sex. Is it-- it's not weird, right? I mean, we're good?"

"Of course we're good," says Poldi immediately.

"Oh, good," says Basti, breathing out. It doesn't feel weird, for him, but it's always good to check.

"It's not weird," says Poldi. "It's just you and me. Same as the rest of it. I mean, right?"

"Right," says Basti, grinning, because it's nice to hear that Poldi sees it the same way.

Just the two of them: hitting the big-time simultaneously, trading off goals, fucking.

He's glad, because really, he doesn't know what else he'd say otherwise. 

Feelings are dumb and scary, and it's nice to think that maybe it's just supposed to be like this, maybe he's just supposed to love his teammate and best friend, the way he's supposed to make perfect passes and score goals out on the pitch. Instinctive and unchangeable, and he doesn't have to talk about it or try to explain it because it just _is_ , like breathing.

 

**May 2006**

He's selected for the World Cup squad, and so is Poldi. 

It's not a surprise, exactly, but it's still a fucking relief, in a way he can't really put into words.

He calls Poldi as soon as he hears and shouts, "You and me, baby, World Cup!"

"Jesus Christ, I think I've gone deaf," says Poldi. "If my balance is off now, I'll kill you."

"Fuck off," says Basti, grinning like a moron. "I miss you. Wanna have phone sex?"

Poldi bursts out laughing, loud and abandoned, and when he's got himself under control again he says, "I'm gonna see you really soon, loser," but also, "Yeah, okay, let's do it."

Basti closes his eyes, still smiling, and thinks about Poldi naked, the play of perfectly sculpted muscle and bone under his smooth tanned skin, the contrast of Basti's paler hands when he touches him. The bright, blown blue of his eyes, the bitten plush pink of his lips.

"Gonna jerk you off," he decides. "I miss your dick."

"So romantic," breathes Poldi, giggling, and then, "Yeah, yeah. You have really nice hands."

"Yeah?" says Basti interestedly, looking down at them. They're alright, he supposes. He has pretty long fingers, which works well, because Poldi has a pretty thick dick. He sucks in a breath thinking about it, wrapping them around his own cock and imagining it's Poldi's, wider than his own, always heavy and dripping when he touches it, hard with blood under the petal-soft skin.

"Fuck," says Poldi. "Basti."

"Are you touching your dick?" says Basti, squeezing himself hard. His breath catches audibly.

Poldi makes an affirmative humming noise into the phone, and then groans right after.

"Good," says Basti. He jerks himself slowly and thinks about what he does to Poldi when they're together. Poldi likes it when he presses his thumb under the fat, flushed head of his dick, when he grazes it over the slit. It always makes his hands tighten convulsively wherever he's touching Basti, always makes his dick twitch and bloom slick with more precome. He likes it when Basti squeezes him extra hard, too. Basti actually does that mostly for himself, because he likes the way it's so different to getting himself off, the way Poldi's width fits differently in his palm, the way the flesh feels trapped in the tight circle of his fingers. The way it _looks_ , Poldi's dick pushing through his fist, so fucking hot Basti doesn't actually know how to articulate that to him now.

"Fucking-- God," he gasps. "Get yourself off for me, Poldi, come on, just like I would, I'm not gonna tease you, gonna make you come right away, soon as we're in the hotel, maybe I'll tease you after but I gotta see you come first, gotta feel your dick in my hand, jerk you off, so hard it might even hurt a bit but you'd like that, right? Just a little, just-- just a bit."

" _Fuck_ ," hisses Poldi. "Fuck, Basti, yeah."

"Yeah, what?" says Basti.

"Yeah, I'd like that," says Poldi, sounding strained. "I like-- I like it when you-- anything, God."

"Yeah," says Basti. "I like the way your dick looks in my hand, you know? You're so-- it's so-- so hot, fuck, I don't know, you get so _hard_ and I know when you're close because it gets wetter, too, and your face, you-- you have a really good face, and then when I touch you right on the head of your dick it's so sensitive, I can tell, you make these noises, and then you come all over my hand, and-- and sometimes you get it on me, too, like, on my chest or my leg and I-- " He drops his voice, flushing and arching his hips, jerking himself faster, "I really like that, Poldi, it's so hot."

Poldi's groan sounds _painful_ , and then he's coming, Basti can tell, he's making those same noises and panting harshly and swearing under his breath, and Basti lets himself go too.

"Fuck," breathes Poldi after a moment, a rush of static noise in Basti's ear.

Basti stretches and hums.

"I have a good face, huh?" says Poldi. Basti can hear the grin in his voice.

"Shut up," says Basti.

"No, I mean, okay," says Poldi, "Your face is kind of dumb, especially when you come, but-- "

"Wow, thanks," says Basti, "You think _I'm_ romantic, huh?"

" _But_ ," says Poldi loudly, "I-- I like it. Like, a lot. It's a pretty good face too."

"Oh my God," says Basti, and bursts out laughing.

Poldi joins him after a second, warm and happy in his ear.

"I'll see you soon, okay, weirdo?" says Basti, shaking his head.

"Yeah," says Poldi. "Yeah, soon."

 

**June 2006**

Their first night together they share a bed. It's not something they'll be able to do the entire tournament, because the beds are big enough for one footballer but definitely not two, and they don't want to be causing themselves injury or not getting enough sleep. The first night though, that's different, that's okay, and Poldi crawls under the covers with Basti after Basti's showered, slinging an arm over his waist and smiling against his shoulder, biting down gently.

"Gonna kill it," he mumbles. "You and me."

"Fuck yeah," breathes Basti, closing his eyes.

 

**July 2006**

They lose in the semis and it's absolutely awful. Basti is gutted like he hasn't been in his entire lifetime of competitive football, like he hopes he won't ever be again.

Poldi looks stricken after the match against Italy, same as the rest of them, but his red-rimmed eyes and turned-down mouth hit Basti the hardest. Third place is a decent consolation, but the sting of going out is still sharp. He thinks about what they did here, the two of them: Poldi's first ever World Cup goal in the third group match against Ecuador, scoring both goals in the round of 16 win against Sweden, Best Young Player ahead of all the others, Basti included. Tied for overall goals with names like Henry, Zidane, Ronaldo, Torres, Crespo. He doesn't begrudge it at all, because it's Poldi, and because he got two goals against Portugal, and man of the match. 

It's pretty fucking incredible, even if they didn't win, and he cups Poldi's face fiercely between his hands, their last night in the team hotel, and kisses him, _kisses_ him, furiously proud.

He's not sure it's always going to be this easy, the football or Poldi, because they're not always going to be this young and the next however many years won't be the same as the last two.

He hopes, though, that even if it isn't, they'll still be as interchangeable as they've always been, football and Poldi, because football is as cemented in his genetic makeup as the colour of his hair or his eyes, and ever since he nearly tripped over himself into that first hotel he shared with Poldi, Poldi's been part of that, the other side of the scale balancing him out.

Basti doesn't think he'd mind it getting harder, that's just how things go. 

As long as Poldi is _there_ , it's okay, because it's been too much like fate so far, too perfect, too easy, too much like the colour of his hair or his eyes or football, and these things can't be changed, he knows, except that Poldi isn't actually written into his DNA, much as Basti would do that if he could, would write him under his skin just to know he'd be around always.

Poldi is a whole other person with nothing tying him to Basti except the country on his passport and the fact that he can kick a football better than most, and Basti knows that all his stupid ideas about fate won't mean shit if Poldi doesn't actually _want_ to hang around.

All they'll do is hurt, and keep Basti tethered to Poldi long after Poldi has gone, so he hopes, and maybe even believes, because Poldi had said _this is ours_ and _you and me_ and _together_ , after all.


End file.
